Backstage Northern Wrestling League show Manchester Arena Manchester England 8:50pm
The locker room was empty and silent, the corridor of the arena outside the door was a hive of activity, but the loudest thing in Amanda Hamilton’s world was the noise of a sword being forcefully unsheathed.
SHING!
The tinny, metallic ring heralded the arrival of a new text on the young vixen’s mobile phone, and as soon as she heard it, she quickly grabbed at the device, unlocking it with a swipe of her finger.
The white message box on the screen was from ‘Dad’:
Dad: So how you feeling?
Amanda’s fingers flew as she typed out a response that she never thought she’d ever find herself admitting to anyone else:
Amanda: Pure shiting masel.
The texting continued.
Dad: Hah, I was kind of the same on my first gig.
Amanda: An how many guys you punch in the face at that?
Dad: None, but I did kill some eardrums!
Amanda was just typing out her response to this when the door to the locker room opened, letting in the sounds of staff members, camera crew and other people into the room.
One of said crew members, an Old English Sheepdog wearing a black headset, poked her head into the room.
“Miss Hamilton?” she said, urgently. “You’re up next; you’ve got ten minutes!”
“Aye, aye,” Amanda replied, getting to her feet. “I’m comin’.”
Quickly, Amanda fired off a quick text to her father:
Amanda: Right, off to the ring. Love you.
Throwing her phone back into her bag, the brown vixen pulled the laces on her wrestling boots tight, and strode from the locker room.
-------------------
The area known as ‘gorilla position’ was the busiest room in the whole arena.
Two rows of four monitors sat upon folding wooden tables, with a member of NWL sitting behind each. The floor was a mess of black cabling that had been taped down to minimise tripping hazards.
There was also a considerable amount of coffee being consumed – Amanda saw that everyone has some sort of cup of it as she came in, and her nose detected its bitter smell all over the room.
Personally, she couldn’t stand the stuff, having tried it once as a child, and then labelling it as ‘Pissy Earth Juice’ from then onwards.
Ignoring this, the vixen cleared her throat loudly to announce her presence to the room.
The sudden noise caused everyone in the room to look up, and all but one of them quickly returned their gaze to their monitors.
“Amanda! There you are!”
The speaker was a wolverine, speaking up upon identifying that it was Amanda. He was short, but incredibly stocky, muscle clearly defined through the black-and-yellow polo shirt and tracksuit bottoms he was wearing.
This was ‘Mauler’ Mike Halliday, a semi-retired British grappler whose active run in the English wrestling scene had ended about 20 years prior. He’d had experience wrestling in places like Ireland, Germany, Japan, Samoa and Puerto Rico, his roughousing, mat-based, ground-and-pound style winning him many fans.
He moved over to Amanda and placed his hands upon her shoulders, a warm smile on his face.
“How you feeling about going out live on the telly?”
Amanda was actually a couple of inches taller than the wolverine, but that did nothing to hide the enormity of the question.
So she answered truthfully, as always.
“Fuckin’ pishin’ masel’” she said.
“Perfectly natural,” Halliday replied. “A hundred wrestlers have said the same thing to me the first time they went through that curtain and those that said ‘no’ were usually thick or worse than they thought they were.”
Amanda swallowed and nodded her head, a look of steely determination in her eyes.
“Right, so,” the wolverine straightened up and headed away from the vixen towards the monitors and the NWL staff. “You know what you’re going to do. To say?”
“Aye, I do.”
Halliday approached one of the monitors and leaned over, peering at it. The staff member at the desk – a curly-haired Afghan hound – moved over as the beefy wolverine unwittingly encroached upon her space to see the image on the screen. “Hmm… Lindsey went out a minute before you got here, she’s out there doing her promo.”
As if on cue, a loud booing noise issued from the black shiny curtain that lead to the ringside area.
“But it’s best that we don’t keep the people waiting, eh?” the wolverine smiled.
Taking her cue, Amanda advanced to the curtain, just as one of the staff spoke up.
“Amanda, you’re on in 10...9...”
“So, just remember: no swearing...” Halliday reminded Amanda.
“...7...6...5...”
“...and please try not to hurt her?”
“I’ll try.” Amanda replied.
“...3...2...1… and cue Amanda’s music!”
-------------------------------------------
The Hamilton Household Surrey 8:57pm
“Riiiiiight, she’s gonnae be on soon!”
The call of Rusty Hamilton echoed throughout the house, making its way to the other three occupants without much trouble.
Three muffled calls of agreement came in return.
In the spacious living room, Rusty made himself comfortable on the big corner sofa, TV remote in hand, awaiting the arrival of his family.
As the delicate thumping of feet upon floor sounded above him, it did not drown out the noise of wrestling action issuing from the enormous flatscreen TV on the far wall.
First in through the door was a small fox the colour of freshly-laid snow. His hair was just the right length to fall into his eyes – they were the exact same ice colour as his father’s.
But that was not the only trait that Toby Hamilton shared with his father.
It was not his physique that drew comparisons – the white t-shirt (emblazoned with WHYTE KNUCKLE – EUROPE TO NO GOOD TOUR) hung off of his thin frame as though it were 2 sizes too big, unlike his father’s shirts, which highlighted his immensely muscled figure in intimate detail.
Nor was it the boy’s height – he was a mere 5 feet 6 inches tall, which was noticeably smaller than the rest of his family who all stood at 6 feet tall at least.
Instead, it was between his legs where the resemblance between father and son became obvious.
Brown cargo shorts couldn’t hide the impressive endowments he had been born with. A big, folded-over salami protruded out against the zipper, bouncing as he walked thanks to the fat, baseball-dwarfing testicles that sat just below them. Thankfully, his boxer shorts were holding it all in place, lest his meaty dong droop out of one of the legs.
“Awrite, big man?” Rusty said good-naturedly as his son passed him, sitting down right in the corner of the corner sofa.
“Yeah, ‘malright.” Toby replied quietly, crossing his legs, which caused his thick package to jostle noticeably.
“Magic!” Rusty leaned over and clapped his son on the shoulder. Honestly, Rusty’s enormous red paw could have reached fully around Toby’s shoulder with his thumb and ring finger. “You ready tae see yer sister on the telly?”
“Yeah!” Toby’s voice was still quiet, but was nonetheless hopeful.
More footsteps now came from outside of the living room, but twice as many as before.
The door opened again, and now a pair of heaving boobs in a flamingo pink pyjama top came forth from the doorway.
Roxanne Hamilton was ready for bed, as evidenced by her pink pyjamas.
She was also not wearing a bra, as evidenced by the way her over-endowed melons bounced freely underneath the button-up top that wasn’t buttoned up all of the way – whether this was because of the sheer size of her melons or because she loved to flaunt her flawless body even inside of her own house, nobody could ever really tell...
Pink mobile phone in hand, she came into the room in a half-strut – a walking technique her mother had taught her, which helped balance her against her fat jugs – feeling her little brother’s eyes watching her the whole way.
Upon reaching the couch, the sherbet orange vixen laid down and rested her back upon one of the arms, reclining her 6 foot frame at her ease.
“Hey, Princess,” Rusty said jovially to his daughter. "Ye live-messaging yer mates 'bout yer sister on TV?"
“Mmm-hmm,” Roxanne replied, twisting the pink cellular device in one hand. “"I'm posting 'MY SISTER'S ARSE ON NATIONAL TELEVISION, ITV' "
“Hah!” Rusty let out a bark of a laugh, slapping one big baseball mitt of a hand to his face. “I’m sure she’ll be well thrilled at that!”
“Who’s this?” Roxanne gestured at the TV with her phone, where a blonde-haired grey mouse girl was to the ring, microphone in hand. Rusty opened his mouth to try and explain, but stopped when he realised that he didn’t actually know.
“Um...”
“Luscious Lindsey. 120 pounds, from Reading, Berkshire.” Toby said, almost instantly.
There was a moment of silence, before Rusty looked at his son.
“I didn’t know you followed the wrestling.”
“I don’t.” Toby stated innocently, shifting slightly. “I was listening to the announcer.”
“Am I too late?”
The genteel female voice floated through the doorway, and Aurora Hamilton followed it into the living room.
Upon seeing Aurora, it was immediately obvious where her daughter Roxanne ‘got it from’.
The simple and uncomplicated clothes that Rusty’s wife was wearing did nothing to hide her flawless and awe-inspiring body.
Her tits were of such projection and volume that they could be used as the balcony in Romeo and Juliet, and, like Roxanne’s, they entered the room about a foot before she did. Every gentle step she took as she glided gracefully towards her husband sent a ripple through her mighty milkbags.
Her thighs and her buttocks were of a similar size, lending her body an incredibly desirable thickness which hadn’t been affected negatively by either 20 years of marriage or birthing 3 children.
Such are the perks of having Aphrodite for your mother.
“Naw, you’re just in time, love!” Rusty beamed at her. “We’re jist watchin’ this yin run her mooth.”
Aurora took her usual seat beside Rusty, the size and weight of her arsecheeks fitting into the two pre-existing deep bowl shapes set into sofa cushion that had built up over time.
Finally, the Hamilton family were assembled in their living room, eager for the appearance of their daughter, but for now, they still had some of the mouse girl's monologuing to go through.
-------------------------
Ringside Northern Wrestling League show Manchester Arena Manchester England 9:05pm
“BOOOOOOOOO!”
The grey-furred mouse, with her bleached blonde hair and girlishly pink, purple and white outfit, radiated an air of ‘I’m better than you’-ness.
She was Luscious Lindsey, and evidently her taunting promo was causing the Manchester crowd a great deal of displeasure.
“I mean, bloody hell! You morons don’t deserve to see a work of art like me in the ring!” - here, Lindsey’s lip curled as she delivered her killer line - “But if we were in, say, a former European Capital of Culture like Liverpool...”
If the mouse had more to her sentence, it couldn’t be heard under an utter torrent of boos from the crowd at the suggestion of being less cultured than Liverpool.
“She’s right, you know!” Johnny Radcliffe – the horse colour commentator – said knowingly. “If we were anywhere else in Britain, Lindsey’d have no problem wrestling a match tonight!”
“Oh come off it, Johnny!” came the reply of Johnny’s play-by-play broadcast partner – the Manx cat Mark Trent. "Just because they beat Southampton the other day-"
"Hey, that was pure luck, it was never a red card."
“Awww, what’s the matter, Minkies?” Lindsey’s promo continued viciously. “Can’t handle uncomfortable truths? Well, I’ll give you another one, free of charge.”
Taking a moment to flip her blonde hair, Lindsey changed subject.
“I’ve heard rumours floating about the internet and social media about someone that’s apparently coming here, to the NWL; some force that they say is going to come swanning up here from the indies.”
Apart from an irritated ‘Oi!’ from an actual swan in the front row, the crowd started to perk up – there had indeed been an announcement on NWL’s official Coolr page that the NWL Women’s Division would soon be coming ‘under siege’ from ‘the hottest incoming force in company history’.
Just as the audience stopped their booing, however, Lindsey made an effort to quash their mood.
“Well I’m here to tell you people that, whatever this so-called 'force' is, it's not coming!”
And just like that, the boos returned.
"Stop getting your stupid little hopes up!” she continued. “Nothing and no-one's coming, and even if they are, they won't even get a foot in the door, because I’d be there to kick their arse back out again! So there’s going to be no match here tonight, and I look forward to gaining a victory by forfeit!"
“Well said!” Johnny Radcliffe brayed on commentary as the mouse in the ring placed both fists on her hips, satisfied with her statement.
A heavy orchestral stab cut through the noise of the crowd, capturing their attention and making Linsdey jump with the volume of it.
Verdi’s ‘Dies Irae’ belted out loudly over the building’s PA system, all apocalyptic chanting and harsh, booming drums, and the audience exploded as they realised what was happening.
“Oh my!” Mark Trent exclaimed, his voice barely registering over the tumult of the spectators. “All that talk of ‘incoming forces’ seems to be coming true!”
“Look!” Radcliffe exclaimed. “Up on the ramp!”
A crescendo of cheers from the crowd greeted Amanda Hamilton as she stomped into sight atop the rampway.
Her outfit caused those in attendance to gasp in awe.
The whole ensemble was designed to intimidate – the only colours on show were red and black. Her torso was covered in a red singlet-style top with black borders on it. Squarely in the middle of her chest was a circular symbol made of her initials: AH.
The skirt of the outfit was a similar red and black, which alternated in segments between the two colours, and was styled to look like something a gladiator might have worn, with another ancient-looking symbol in black on the forward-facing red segment.
She wore no kneepads, but instead, the tops of her red kickpads both ended in a lethal-looking spike that you certainly wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of.
“That’s Amanda Hamilton!” shouted Trent, losing his mind ever so slightly as Amanda - who had decided that 10 seconds was far too long to pose on the ramp – marched briskly in the direction of the ring.
“Whoa-ho, would you look at that!” laughed Radcliffe. A cameraman, who was positioned down beside the ramp, had his camera pointed at Amanda impressively making her way along.
What he also had his camera pointed at was Amanda’s colossal rear end jiggling and bouncing into view - every time she took a step, the skirt of her costume would fly up a little, offering a peek the black pants she wore underneath.
“I think I like her already!” Radcliffe guffawed on commentary.
Amanda strode up the steel steps, between the ropes and started towards Luscious Lindsey like the Terminator.
“And Amanda Hamilton, raring to go in her first match here in the NWL!” remarked Trent, as the ref stepped in front of the vixen to prevent her getting her hands on the mouse, who was currently cowering in the corner.
Even against the referee, it was apparent that Amanda was definitely bigger than Lindsey, by at least 4 inches.
But Amanda did concede, and retreated far enough away that the referee called for the ring bell to be rung…
Ding-ding-ding
...before walking straight back over to Lindsey, free from referee interference, much to Radcliffe’s delight.
“The bell rings, and wow, I’ve never seen Luscious Lindsey move so fast!” Indeed, Lindsey, upon seeing Amanda advancing, instantly dropped to the mat and rolled outside the ring, swiftly followed by Amanda, who stalked her like a slasher movie villain.
Half-running past the fist-waving Manchester fans and stealing glances behind her every couple steps, Lindsey moved quickly around the side of the ring, skirting past the steel ring steps before darting back into the ring, closely followed by Amanda.
However, as Amanda rolled back into the ring, she was besieged by Lindsey, who had taken advantage of the vixen’s momentary vulnerability to rain down elbows and feet upon her while she was on all fours.
“A sneak attack by Luscious Lindsey!” noted Radcliffe, with no small amount of joy. “That’s the kind of smart thinking you need against someone like Amanda Hamilton!”
“Hardly!” was Trent’s retort. “She just Pearl Harboured her!”
After about ten seconds of this, the mouse decided that this assault was sufficient to keep Amanda down. To this end, she stood up, turned away from her opponent and taunted the crowd, wiping her brow exaggeratedly.
The boos that the crowd rained down upon her showboating were short-lived.
Luscious Lindsey felt a little shake of the ring mat.
The crowd suddenly turned from jeers to cheers.
And then she felt a pair of steely arms lock around her abdomen...
-----------------------
York North Yorkshire England 9:12pm
“Fuck yeah!” “Go on, Amanda!” “She absolutely flung her!”
The cries that were issued in the living room of the house sounded as though they should have come from the mouths of frat boys shouting at a game of beer pong, but instead they came from three thirty-something adults shouting at their television.
“Fucking give it to her!” Moxie cried, swinging her fists at the television, where Amanda was picking herself up from the German Suplex she’d just given to Luscious Lindsey. The fatassed panda bounced up and down on the sofa excitedly, the weight of her thick arsecheeks making the springs underneath her groan in protest.
“Don’t think she can hear you, babe.” Sitting on the sofa next to her was Ricky Hamilton, clad in only a pair of black lounge pants.
His bare feet were resting casually upon the large buttocks of he and Moxie’s partner Maxxie Black, who was laying on the floor on his front before him, a plate of cheese-covered nacho chips beside his head.
“Dude,” the black cat said, downing another fistful of fried potato and dairy while Amanda hoisted the grey mouse up onto her feet on the TV screen. “Mandy’s killin’ that girl!”
This would only be true for another few minutes, however, because Lindsey leapt onto the nearest rope as soon as she was on her feet, clinging to it as a mother might cling to her newborn child.
The referee, for the second time in the match, now placed himself between Amanda and Lindsey, placing his hands on the vixen’s shoulders to prevent her from advancing any further.
Annoyed, Amanda struggled to remove the ref from her way using absolute minimal force, so as not to be disqualified…
...only to receive Lindsey’s fingers raking painfully at her eyes.
“Come on, ref!” Moxie shouted, actually standing up and gesticulating at the television.
The sudden leap to her feet sent her large white asscheeks, which were currently devouring some XL crimson panties, bouncing freely pretty much directly beside Ricky’s face.
Instantly, and almost reflexively, Ricky quickly placed his left hand where the panda had been sitting – her arse had left a pair of half-sphere dents in the sofa cushion, which were still nice and warm.
The instant Moxie’s rear end touched Ricky’s hand, the rattlesnake gave her right cheek a good grope.
“Ah!” gasped Moxie, surprised and thrown off balance by the unexpected hand on her seat. She sighed and glared when she found that the object was her partner’s hand.
Ricky simply gave her one of his favourite shit-eating grins in response – two decades clearly hadn’t changed him much.
Unlike Rusty, Maxxie, Moxie and Ricky had no children – which was a surprise, given how many girls the two of the boys had bedded over the years. Though they had all agreed that Whyte Knuckle be disbanded, the three of them weren’t content to simply lounge about and do nothing – to that end, all 3 of them still had occupations that they used to keep themselves active and make a little money.
Ricky and Maxxie hadn’t given up on being musicians; in fact, they owned a small music recording studio in York called ‘The Raveyard’, which they rented out to hopeful musicians looking to make it like they themselves did, and they took great pleasure in helping many up-and-coming artists to find a sound of their own.
With that being their only real commitment, the cat, panda and rattlesnake had enough free time to take semi-regular holidays to Maxxie’s home state of California.
But at the moment, there was downtime – they had come back from California not 3 weeks ago, and no-one was currently using The Raveyard.
A great coincidence, then, that the downtime should come at the exact time that one of their own make their debut on the TV.
“Come on Amanda!”
“Come on Amanda!”
It hadn’t taken long for the Manchester crowd to get behind Amanda Hamilton, and she could hear them egging her on, although it was admittedly difficult to concentrate with Luscious Lindsey twisting her arm over the top rope.
The referee was over beside them, admonishing the mouse for her illegal hold.
“Come on, break it up, Lindsey! 1...2...3...4...”
At the last possible second, Lindsey let go, saving herself from disqualification, throwing her hands up and smiling at the referee, who backed off.
The instant that Lindsey turned back to Amanda, she was met with the hand of Amanda’s right, unhurt arm grabbing at the back of her neck.
The next thing she knew, the turnbuckles were at her back, and Amanda’s fist was crashing into the side of her head, each blow sending stars across her vision.
“Vicious rights from Amanda Hamilton, here, and- oh, wow!” Mark Trent gasped on commentary as Amanda hooked her arm under Lindsey’s armpit and threw her out of the corner. “A hip toss out of the corner, one-handed, too!”
Lindsey landed on her back in the middle of the ring, and the momentum with which she was flung actually carried her through to the opposite corner, where she slumped herself, facing into the ring.
“Oh cra- hurk!”
The wind was driven forcefully from the mouse’s body as the shoulder of Amanda - who had charged across the ring as soon as Lindsey had gone to the corner – buried itself straight into her stomach.
As Amanda stepped back, Lindsey was doubled over, hanging on to the top rope with one arm and using the other to hold her midsection.
Her respite lasted only seconds, however, as Amanda’s gloved hands grabbed her roughly by her blonde hair, forcing her to walk to the middle of the ring.
Hands still on the mouse’s hair, Amanda forced Lindsey’s head down between her thick thighs, then wrapped her arms about her torso.
“Oh, I don’t like this, Trent!” Johnny Radcliffe spoke, as Amanda effortlessly hauled Luscious Lindsey up into a seated position of the vixen’s shoulders. “Hamilton’s got Lindsey in a dangerous position, here!”
“Amazing strength from Hamilton,” Mark Trent agreed. “Looks like she’s setting up for a - powerbomb!”
And powerbomb she did – Lindsey was sent crashing down to the mat, her back taking the full brunt of the 6 foot fall.
The noise of the powerbomb was a dull cannon sounding through the arena, and the impact was so forceful that the mouse actually bounced almost a foot back in the air, before coming to rest in the ring.
The crowd let out a curious noise immediately afterwards – a mix of a gasp and hushed exhalation.
“OOOOOoooooohh!”
Amanda then descended upon the supine body of Luscious Lindsey for a pin attempt, and the referee followed suit, getting down on all fours to count the pin.
“1...2...”
-------------
Nottingham Nottinghamshire England 9:16pm
“...a kick-out at 2.9!”
In the garage, the loud sounds of slightly panicked commentary and a crowd shouting in disbelief issued forth from a grey laptop sitting open upon a black tool box cabinet.
Underneath the noise radiating off of the walls of the mechanic shop was the metallic clinking of a ratchet being used.
The user of said ratchet was a young armadillo, puce in colour, wearing a pair of dark blue overalls with the sleeves rolled up.
Currently, she was flat on her back atop a mechanic’s creeper, which was slid underneath the old BMW M3 she was working on.
“OK, can I have the socket wrench, please, Boss?”
When her request was not answered, she wheeled herself out from under the German car.
“Uh, Vince?”
The armadillo apprentice used her arms to prop herself up and look at her employer.
Anyone who had ever seen the drummer of Whyte Knuckle before their retirement would hardly have recognised the man sitting on the bonnet of the car.
Perhaps the most drastic change was that the pigment of his skin had changed noticeably: whereas it had once been an almost iconic light teal colour, it was now a more standard pale white – the same colour it had been before he’d joined the band.
Where thin dreads once tumbled down from Geiger’s head, there was now long, smooth black hair – it had taken a considerable amount of time, a lot of patience and a particularly steady hand to undo his former hairstyle.
Speaking of hands – underneath his boiler suit, his metal right arm was no longer the gun metal grey, cylindrical affair that it had been in the past. Now, he had utilised modern prosthetics to make his fake limb less conspicuous by having it be covered in panels that were the same hue as his own skin. With the only thing to distinguish his fake arm from a genuine one being the lines separating each panel, Geiger could have the best of both worlds – he now felt truly comfortable with his arm, whilst retaining its indefatigability.
“Hmm? Ah, my apologies.”
Dismounting from the car, Geiger leaned over towards the tool cabinet, removed the socket wrench from its drawer and handed it to the armadillo, never taking his eyes from the stream on the laptop all the while.
The apprentice armadillo took the wrench, and looked at the stream that her boss was watching.
Upon the screen, she could see what appeared to be two women wrestling, and then wrinkled her nose.
Before tonight, her time in Vincent Geiger’s garage had always been soundtracked by his favourite prog rock music, which, to be honest, she didn’t mind listening to.
So to hear the Rush, the Kansas and the Pink Floyd replaced with the sounds of professional wrestling, of all things, struck her as very odd.
Geiger didn’t seem to be the type of person who enjoyed any type of violence, much less the kind of roughness going on before them.
“Huh, didn’t know you liked that kind of stuff, Boss.” she said.
“Oh, I don’t, usually,” Geiger smiled down at his apprentice, eyes covered by a pair of black rounded sunglasses – a far cry from the more outlandish eyewear he used to sport back in the day. “But you see that vixen there?”
Sitting up, the armadillo squinted at the laptop screen where Geiger was pointing. Indeed, of the two wrestlers in the ring, the rather brutal-looking brown vixen was the only one of them currently standing.
“Yeah? What about her?”
“That’s my niece.”
-----------------
Luscious Lindsey had dragged herself to her feet, turning to face Amanda - frankly, with her hunched over stance and drooping arms, she looked like a zombie.
She was met with the back of Amanda’s left glove gently pressing against her left cheek, almost steadying her into stillness.
“Uh-oh, what’s Amanda going for, here?” came Mark Trent’s voice warningly on the commentary.
Before Lindsey could even begin to piece together what was going on with Amanda’s hand, Amanda had whirled around on the spot and absolutely clattered the mouse in the side of her head with the back of her right fist.
“Oh, WOW! ” exclaimed both Trent and Radcliffe, stunned by the sheer force of the blow, a sentiment echoed by the Manchester crowd – the hard camera actually caught a few people in the front row flinching as a spray of Lindsey’s saliva blossomed out of the ring towards them.
Lindsey crumpled to the mat, her body falling perpendicular to the ring ropes. Even the referee clutched his arms about his head in sympathy.
Amanda knelt down, picked up Lindsey’s left ankle in her left hand and her right ankle in her right, and dragged her into the centre of the ring, like a serial killer dragging away the corpse of a victim.
Once the vixen was satisfied with she and Lindsey’s respective positions in the squared circle, she hooked her ankles under her armpits and simply turned and stepped over the mouse.
Lindsey screamed.
She was now in a reverse Boston Crab, except that Amanda, where a regular Boston Crab would have her facing away, was facing the same way as her, and was now using this to gently roar at the back of her head:
“Tap, ya bint!”
“I know that hold!” Johnny Radcliffe audibly gasped on commentary. “That’s the ‘Sails of Charon’!”
The pain on Lindsey’s entire spine was simply too great, and both of her hands slapped the mat like a toddler having a tantrum.
“And a convincing win for Amanda Hamilton!” Mark Trent exclaimed over the sounding of the ring bell.
“I haven’t seen the like since, well, since I was in that ring!” Radcliffe mused over the cheering of the crowd.
Dropping her opponents legs, Amanda simply stood there, looking down at Luscious Lindsay, whose body had started to writhe in pain.
As the referee lifted Amanda’s right arm high in victory, the vixen took her right foot and pressed it down upon the back of Lindsey in a display of dominance.
“And the winner of the match – Amanda Hamilton!”
The ring announcer’s voice brought Amanda’s head up to look around at the crowd, and she started to turn around in the ring, her arm still held up by the ref.
So many of them had leapt to their feet, waving their signs and fists at the fight they had just witnessed. So many more than there had been in the indies. All cheering for her.
“Finally,” she thought. “This is where I belong.”
The referee let her arm go and went to check on Luscious Lindsey, who was still curled up on her side in the ring.
As he did so, a female woodpecker entered the ring and approached Amanda, microphone in hand.
“Amanda!” she crowed, shoving the mic up to the victorious vixen’s face. “Congratulations on your first victory, here in the NWL! Where do you think you’ll go from here?”
Her chest still rising and falling heavily from her match, Amanda said nothing, instead fixing the bird with a piercing glare that diminished the smile from the interviewer’s beak.
For about five seconds they stayed this way – the vixen scowling and the woodpecker looking a little uncomfortable – before Amanda wordlessly moved away towards the ropes, dropping to the mat and rolling under them to exit the ring.
The final shot of Amanda Hamilton on the broadcast was a back shot of said vixen striding back up the ramp in much the same way she had come out – her large rear bouncing with every step.
---------------
High above Greece...
Upon the precipice of it, where the ever-shining terrace of Olympus sharply ended, dropping into the brutal, craggy mountain face that connected it to the Earth below.
Here, there were two gods:
The first was Hermes – the messenger of Olympus, the god of trade, heraldry, merchants, commerce, roads, thieves, trickery, sports, travelers, and athletes and the psychopomp who led the deceased to the underworld.
His fine legs dangled off of the edge of the floor of Olympus, capped by winged sandals of untarnishable gold, and his winged Petasos helmet lay on the ground beside him as he looked northwest towards the city of Manchester.
Beside him lay golden Aphrodite, the unmistakeable goddess of love, beauty, passion and procreation.
She lay on her side, head propped up on one hand as she looked out into the wide sky, the fingers of her other hand twirling her perfect hair around its index finger.
“I must say, dear Aphrodite,” Hermes said. “Your granddaughter has proven to be quite the skilled fighter. You would think that she was born in Sparta, with the way she was on the attack just now.”
“Indeed,” the lovely goddess replied. “Although you do know that it isn’t real?”
Though he knew she spoke in jest, the quickest of the gods said in reply:
